


A growing emptiness

by Banashee



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo ROUND 2 [6]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blood and Injury, Childhood Trauma, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Eating Disorders, Food Issues, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Missions Gone Wrong, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Phil Coulson, Survivor Guilt, Trauma, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:22:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28428498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Banashee/pseuds/Banashee
Summary: Clint is the one in control, even when he loses weight quicker than ever.Part of him is angry and disappointed with himself - being with SHIELD was the best chance he’s ever had, and he messed up after such a short amount of time. The aftermath of a fucked up mission sure doesn’t help, and all he wants is to get away.It might be less painful than being kicked out.-Bad Things Happen BingoSquare 6/25: Denied food as punishmentThis is also part 1of a new series, "Like a ghost in the back of my mind"
Relationships: Clint Barton & Phil Coulson
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo ROUND 2 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1981954
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	A growing emptiness

**Author's Note:**

> Bad Things Happen Bingo - Round 2!  
> Originally, I had this aaaall planned out as a NaNoWriMo project, but I decited to scrap that. Instead, I'll just write little snippets for each prompt and safe the larger ideas for another time. I'll write them - one day...  
> *Looks at giant pile of unfinished ideads and projects*  
> *nervous laughter dissolving into desperate sobbing*  
> -
> 
> As always, I'm crossposting these stories on my Tumblr.  
> https://banashee.tumblr.com/
> 
> You can get your own Bingo Card over at  
> https://badthingshappenbingo.tumblr.com/
> 
> The cover for this fic was made with a free to use photo from unsplash
> 
> Please mind the tags and warnings!

****

****

**A growing emptiness**

A big part of his childhood, Clint spends either hungry or worrying about food. 

He learns early on to take food whenever possible, because the likelihood of there not being any later is high. Most of the time, it’s due to poverty. This is often paired with his father (or later, other caretakers) spending money on booze rather than food. Satisfying their own needs instead of feeding the kids. Sadly, he is used to it and so he learns to eat whenever possible, whatever he can get his hands on any. Clint isn’t picky at all. 

He’ll eat something even though it may be off. Clint has scraped mold off of bread more than once, forced himself to choke down something he doesn’t like at all, because it’s still better than nothing. 

Sometimes, when things get bad, he’ll steal food. 

He is ashamed of it, but not enough to stop. Running from someone who is angry he took some sort of fruit or vegetable from their garden is much preferred to digging through a trashcan. He does that, too. Some days, he’s got no other choice, especially if he managed to piss off Duquesne or Chisholm and they decide to cut him off. 

“Pissing them off” can mean many things, and as much as Clint can be sassy or big mouthed when he wants to, more often than not, it’s not even anything he said. 

He might not train hard enough to their liking, he might fail because he is sick or distracted. Any number of things that are out of his control.

Sometimes, they just feel like it. “You owe us your life” they’ll say, or “I decide if you’ll eat or not. Today you won’t.” 

Clint gets used to this, too. It is one of the biggest reasons he’ll hoard food whenever he can get any. Occasionally, Barney or Chisholm will find it, and then all hell breaks loose, leading to more yelling, more bruises, more cuts or broken bones. 

He is more careful after that. Clint also gets used to ignoring hunger - he’s been used to it long before, but living the way he does only makes it worse. 

It’s not until much, much later when Clint is an adult and with SHIELD that he realizes just _how_ fucked up his upbringing really was. 

Yes, it hurt, and yes it sucked, in countless different ways. But he never knew anything else back then. 

The thing is, if it happened to anyone else, he’d have started a riot for their cause. But him? That’s just how things are and better deal with it he kept telling himself.

Now, that Clint is older and out of this environment, he has learned that, despite his experiences, not all people are bad. 

There are people who love and support him, people who see more in him than someone who is worth something because of his skillset. People who see him as a friend because of him, and not what he can do. 

Until he gets there, it is a long way. 

Clint doesn’t trust anyone, avoids personal interactions whenever possible. It’s easier to protect himself that way. The one exception is Agent Phil Coulson, who has recruited him - that is, he pulled him out of a shithole and offered a new job, a new life. Him being his assigned handler helps, too. No one else wants to deal with him, and he’s okay with that.

He’ll do his job and do whatever is asked of him, but he doesn’t want anyone around him, really. People mean risk means attack means loss of control.

Never again. 

Apart from the obvious, working with SHIELD also means a lot more freedom than he had before. Sure, he’d spent 3 years on the streets and working highly illegal jobs, but he really doesn’t count “on the run” as freedom. The army, circus or foster care don’t come anywhere near that word and neither does any other part of his childhood. 

Now, he has legal work with times and places to be when it’s ordered, but he’s got a place to go back to, a bed to sleep in and a cafeteria that’s open 24/7.

If he is being honest, that last part is kind of overwhelming. Especially in the first days and weeks, he expects the access to it to be revoked at any time, to find the doors closed some day. It never happens, but it doesn’t stop him from squirreling more bread rolls and packets of chips for later into his pockets. No one notices, or if they do, no one calls him out of it. It is as good as permission as it gets. 

The thing is: Clint is used to starvation. He never really had regular meals, it was always eat whatever you can, how much you can and then hide more for bad times. Sometimes, that meant 6000 calories in one day and a few granola bars over the course of the next week.

It’s a pattern he is used to, and as such, his visits to the cafeteria are few and far between, but he does pack away more than most when he is there.

Clint doesn’t think anyone would care enough to notice.

He is wrong. 

Clint has been with SHIELD for several months when Phil Coulson approaches him after a meeting. There are other Agents present, so he simply tells him, “Barton, a word please.” while walking past, trusting that he’ll follow him. He does. 

When the door to Coulson’s office closes behind then, Clint asks,

“What’s up, boss?”

“Sit, please. This isn’t strictly work-related, but it worries me.” Phil knows he needs to be careful how he approaches this situation, because Barton doesn’t trust most people. He does, however, trust him, which is half the reason he is talking to his asset about this when most would have booked him an appointment with psych with no questions asked. In this case, it would be a sure way to lose whatever trust Barton managed to build in the past few months since he joined the organisation.

Clint sits down on the chair across from Coulson, frowning. He isn’t sure where this is going, and he hates that.

“Yes?” he asks curtly, waiting for more explanation.

Coulson speaks deliberately, keeping his body language open. The last thing he wants is for this to come across as accusatory. 

“It’s something I noticed, and to be honest, I think you need help. Ever since you joined us, I’ve never seen you eat anything for more than a few times a week. Let alone multiple times a day. Not here or when we are out on missions…”

A deep flush creeps up Barton's neck. He isn’t angry, which surprises him. But he is deeply embarrassed that someone noticed his patterns. 

“Oh.” he says, and stays silent for a bit. Thankfully, Coulson lets him, waits for him to say anything else.

“It’s fine, I’m used to it.”

Except, it isn’t fine.

It’s never affected his work before, but things get stressful and then, a mission goes to shit in all the wrong ways. 

The circumstances are out of anyone's control, but when it gets down to it, people die and Clint, who has a bullet stuck in his shoulder, can’t react fast enough to save them all.

He finally gets a clear shot and with pain shooting through him, he manages to bring down the men who shot a group of civilians and two of their agents just seconds before, saving the remaining people. Unfortunately, they can’t do anything to help either their two agents or the family that was captured by them. One teenanger, a toddler and two adults. All of them are dead. 

He failed. 

Cold dread and nausea rise in Clint, and he manages to find an empty corner of the rooftop he is perched on before he is sick all over the place. 

He is dry heaving while the Senior Agent whose name he keeps forgetting yammers into the commlink, causing it to blow out with certain tones that are painful despite his already shitty hearing. The sensation makes it all worse, but Clint can’t talk, choking and coughing still, when suddenly, his private channel to Coulson crackles to life.

It’s always in place, no matter what. Clint doesn’t trust anyone else like he trusts Coulson, and he appreciates him looking out for him that way. He is always more comfortable, when he knows that there is a line of communication open with him. 

“Barton, status report. Talk to me.”

Clint chokes on air and stomach fluid again - there isn’t anything but water that he could throw up, but his body is reacting violently. There is blood, dripping from his shoulder and soaked uniform onto the floor. As much as he wants to say anything, he can’t. 

“Stay put, I’m coming.”

With the other Senior Agent still yelling over the comms, with the pain, guilt and panic in his chest and dizziness in his head, Clint can’t focus on anything. He collapses on the floor, uncaring whether or not he lands in the mess, gasping for air and trying to get a grip on himself. 

Then, Coulson appears by his side. He faintly notices that he is talking to him, but he can’t make out his words. He is too far gone, and then he starts to black out. Part of Clint is glad that he can blame the tears in his eyes on pain from his bullet wound and the fact that he’s spent the last few minutes throwing up violently, but even in his sorry state, he knows he’s fucked up. 

When Clint wakes up, he does so in a hospital bed, drugged with pain medication. He hates it immediately, because hospitals, in his experience, are one of the unsafest places one could ever be in. He’s forced to stay in bed, hooked up to machines or IV lines, people know where he is and who he is and there is no way of defending himself in this state. 

His heartbeat speeding up and breathing gets hard. Before he can do anything else, a warm hand is placed onto his arm, and it takes Clint a while to realize that it’s Coulson, who is talking to him, trying to help and he doesn’t leave. 

Clint is too out of it to say or do anything about it. After a while, he falls back asleep.

He doesn’t eat.

The nurses pick up full trays every time, and they, along with the doctors and most of all, Coulson, express their concern. 

“I’m not hungry.” he insists every time, and gets more irritated with every attempt to talk about this.

It must be a trick - Clint knows he fucked up, people died because of him. There is no reason he should eat - if he tries to take anything, things will get so much worse, and in his current state, he would be unable to defend himself. Better not risk it - he isn’t going to eat.

At this point, Clint isn’t even half aware of how wrong this mindset is, and just how much damage was done to him over the years to believe all of those things. Another reason for this, that only occured recently: it is his way to stay in control over himself. No one can force him to eat, and no one can take it away from him.

He is the one in control, even when he loses weight quicker than ever.

Medical wants to keep him there, not because his injuries would demand it, but because he isn’t taking anything but liquids.

Clint disagrees - he is fine, he insists, and takes the next opportunity to bolt when it presents itself. 

He hides out in his bathroom, doors locked, sitting on the cold tile floor and shaking apart.

He is overwhelmed, anxious with guilt, nauseous from hunger and crying soundlessly out of sheer habit. It doesn't matter - there is no one around to watch him.

Part of him is angry and disappointed with himself - being with SHIELD was the best chance he’s ever had, and he messed up after such a short amount of time. The aftermath sure doesn’t help, and all he wants is to get away. It might be less painful than being kicked out. 

He doesn’t know what to do, so Clint just keeps hiding until there is somebody at his front door, knocking intently. He curses it, but eventually drags himself to the door and opens - he knows he can’t escape forever.

To his surprise, he isn’t faced with an entire team of agents to be hauled away. The only person there is his handler, and Phil Coulson looks more worried than anything else. His frown only deepens when he sees Clint.

To be fair, he really doesn’t look good at all. He’s lost a lot of weight, hasn’t slept and is holding onto sanity with his bare teeth at this point. 

“Hi Boss. You here to kick me out?” he rasps, and the look he gets in response is puzzled.

“No, of course not. May I come in?”

Clint steps aside, letting him in. He doesn’t look back while shuffling to the living room, and it is clear that his shoulder is still giving him trouble. Despite his best attempts to hide it, it is obvious to Phil, who is close behind him. 

Once they’re sitting down, Clint remains silent. He is fidgeting with the fabric of a throw blanket, waiting for Coulson to talk - if he isn’t here to kick him out of SHIELD, he really doesn’t know why he would bother to come. 

“To be honest, Barton, I’m not entirely sure what is happening. But something isn’t right, and I hope that we can find a solution.”

It’s all he can do to nod. He is exhausted and besides, he doesn’t know what he could say, either.

Coulson continues, “The last mission…” but Clint pales at the thought of it and he can’t stop himself from blurting out,

“I’m sorry. I know I fucked up. Wasn’t fast enough... Six people died...“

“You got hurt.” Phil replies, looking over to the couch where his asset is slowly shrinking into himself. Shit. He really must have underestimated this young man’s state of mind. Carefully, he continues.

“None of this is your fault - did you think we would blame you for the outcome?”

This seems to genuinely confuse him. “Uh - yes?” 

Slowly shaking his head, Phil replies,

“No. Sometimes, things just go wrong and there is nothing we can do about it, except our best. You were injured, which you reported, and you still managed to save five other people. This is more than we could have hoped for. You did a good job out there, especially under the circumstances.”

“...Right.” It doesn’t sound like Clint believes it. He doesn’t have a reason to - nothing he knows or lived through would have indicated that something like this wasn’t to be blamed on anyone - probably him. 

“I understand that this is hard. We have mental health professionals to help with that sort of thing, and I think it would be of benefit for you to talk to them.” 

Clint remains silent - he doesn’t trust them. He has talked to them, right after joining the organisation - it wasn’t a pleasant experience. Giving away any kind of personal information makes him want to crawl out of his skin and hide somewhere. People knowing details about him is a dangerous thing, and as much as they’d needled and pushed, Clint managed to keep quite a bit to himself still. He is ridiculously proud of that.

Right now though, he is tired. So very tired.

“I don’t trust them.” he confesses silently. 

Phil nods slowly. He figured as much, understands even - he, too, isn’t too keen on sharing certain issues. But it is a well needed support system that exists for good reason. This is what he says, surprising both himself and Barton with his words, but truth be told, this is everything but a professional conversation. He wants to help, not just because Clint is his asset - he cares, on a personal level. Phil cares for all agents, especially the ones assigned to him. 

But something in this young man in front of him brings out his protective streak. It doesn’t matter that Barton is well trained in armed and unarmed combat, amongst other skillsets. He is 22 years old and as far as Coulson can tell, he’s never had a single soul he could trust or rely on in his life and he is determined to change that. 

“Medical say they’re concerned about you coping. And so am I. Have been for a while, actually.” 

It is clear that Phil refers to their conversation in his office a little while back. Clint sighs heavily.

“I’m not very good at it right now.”

He is beyond exhausted at this point, or he wouldn’t have opened up at all. As sad as it may be, but his handler is the only person who hasn’t fucked him over yet. He really hopes it stays that way.

“It’s just that, I’m used to things going certain ways.” Clint explains, rubbing a hand over his face. Then, he suddenly finds himself talking about the circus. 

He is talking about food and shelter constantly being held over his head and how he eventually started to take back control in the only way he knew how. He is talking about starving and binge eating on purpose at first, and later out of sheer habit. Clint talks about the way the latest mission specifically triggered all of this, and he is pathetically proud of himself for being able to keep his emotions in check the entire time. It’s hard, harder than usual - but he is sharing so much already. He can’t do more. 

Phil is listening to him without a word, careful to keep his face even. On the outside, he is calm and collected, but the more he listens, the more furious he gets. There is no other way to say it. Seething anger boils in him, directed at every single person responsible for years of abuse and mistreatment of a child who grew up to be a damaged adult, still doing his best and thinking it isn’t enough. 

For how long he is talking, Clint wouldn't be able to tell. But once he is done, the room is completely silent and he is staring at a stain on the table - it’s easier than facing the fact that he just told all of these things to another human being. As much as it scares him, it may be just the right thing to do. 

Staring ahead and keeping his breathing as calm as possible is all he can do for now. But maybe, some day, he might be ready to accept help. 

*+~

Prompt: Denied food as a punishment

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings:
> 
> \- Past Child Abuse  
> \- Food issues  
> \- Eating Disorder  
> \- Starvation  
> \- Denied food as punishment  
> \- Food hoardig  
> \- Dealing with related past trauma, PTSD  
> \- Death, dying children (non-graphic)  
> \- Vomiting  
> \- Blood and injury, gun wounds


End file.
